singillatim | let's gather round the campfire and sing our campfire song

Thank fuck, there’s proper night time here! Dorian is thriving in the darkness, discarding the layers of clothes he normally wears during the day. He’s still bundled up, of course, but it’s a temperature appropriate bundling up, not a ‘no sunlight shall touch my skin’ vampire sort of bundled up. And he is thriving by the campfire.

There’s something about the atmosphere, the spooky stories and the flickering flames, that puts Dorian firmly in his element. This is a bitch who loves to monologue. And given the opportunity? He will do just that. He’s absolutely in his element, looking over at Chloe with a little smirk on his face as he starts to narrate a story. No preamble, no ‘how do you do,’ just launching right into it. It feels right for the situation, after all.

“There was a young man driving through the woods,” Dorian narrates, leaning close to the fire so that flickering flames can dance over his face. “It was a cold, dark, gloomy winter night, much like this one, if I’m being honest. As he drove, he saw someone standing on the side of the road. A young woman, early twenties, long blonde hair. She was the kind of woman who radiated warmth. And so, she asked for a lift. Her house wasn’t too far away and there was a storm coming—she wouldn’t be able to make it on her own. The young man agreed.”

Dorian pauses before continuing, “I’m sure you think you know where this story is going. But the hitchhiker wasn’t the problem. The thing chasing her, on the other hand…that’s where the trouble starts.”

For someone who spent a few days last month crazy and murderous, Dorian is holding up fairly well. He’s warming his hands by the fire, occasionally keeping an eye on a pack of tinfoil he’s got cooking in there—it’s an Arctic version of a hobo packet with rabbit meat, root vegetables, and a few mushrooms wrapped inside. A fireplace poker and shovel he’s liberated from one of the houses sits next to Dorian’s feet—obviously how he got the hobo packet in there in the first place.

As he spots Raylan, Dorian gives the man a little nod. Truth be told, he’s still figuring out how he fits in with some of these people. Going from confessing that he did a little bit of murder to doing a little bit of murder again, even if it was murder driven by another horrible supernatural force, naturally won’t endear you to many people. Best way to deal with this is to take it one interaction at a time, acting nice and calm and kicking up the charm to even greater levels, just to win a semblance of goodwill.

“Care for a story?” Dorian asks, with a little grin. “I just put the food in so it’ll need to have time to cook. And the atmosphere is perfect for a ghost story or two, wouldn’t you say?”

Raylan slows as he comes upon the campfire and lifts his chin in a return of that nod, long legs bringing him closer as Goose's steps stop about where the firelight meets the dark. He knew who Dorian was, both from the gossip and from Chloe, and since his offered blanket of defense extends to him, Raylan couldn't see any reason to say no.

"Can't say it's perfect for a beach barbeque, that's for sure," he huffs in agreement as he comes over and takes a seat, long legs folding so he could warm his hands in much the same manner as Dorian was.

"Been a long time since I've heard a good story. You'll hav'ta stack up against ol' Appalachian stories, but you look up to the task." He smiles crookedly, eyes squinting a little as he gauged Dorian's general everything.

"Let's see if you can get my arm hairs up."

Dorian grins, obviously enjoying the mood and enjoying the fact that he gets to be a spooky little asshole. Try as he may to deny it, he's a dramatic fuck who enjoys spooky stories, tales of horror, mentions of the macabre and fun things of that nature.

"There is a small town on the Arctic Circle. It's the sort of small town where only the locals live, where tourists don't venture. One day, that changed. A tourist was unlucky enough to crash his car near the town. One of the locals took him in. Though the local warned the tourist that this was a horrible time to visit the village. You see, it was a full moon. And this village was...different."

Raylan lifts his eyebrows over a crooked smile - no missing the allusions to Milton or Silverpoint. A good place for a ghost story. The trees almost called to him like the deep valleys of eastern Kentucky, with it's forest lore, where even the dark seemed to peer and pierce through a man's souls on some nights.

The smile shifts to a grin at the 'this village was different'. Weren't they just.

"Go on," he says invitingly, reaching into his layers and long coat to fish out a flask that's opened with firm stroke of his thumb and offered out to Dorian after he's had a drink himself.

Dorian’s fellow Darkwalker vampire is also thriving with the shorter days creeping in. The scary stories are also weirdly nostalgic. When she’d been at boarding school, a sheltered kid who had never really been anywhere, the girls used to scare her at night by recapping horror movies she’d never seen.

She smiles at the story, too, a kind of twist on the phantom hitchhiker.

“What kind of thing are we talking about, here?”

"A monster," Dorian grins, obviously thriving in the atmosphere. He leans in closer to the fire, solely so the fire can cast odd shadows on his face, purely being a dramatic, atmospheric little bitch.

"It was large, over ten feet tall. It smelled of death, purification, rot. And it was strong. The man and woman thought they were safe from the storm, cozy and warm in her house. But the creature made itself known by hurling an entire fucking tree through the woman's house."

He smacks his hands together, as if to replicate the sound of a tree crashing through a wall.

"The monster was a troll. And not one of those cute little things with the gem in their stomach from the 1980s. But a proper troll, as if from Norse mythology. A large, brutish, ugly creature. And a creature that wanted the woman dead."

Dorian happily takes the flask. He takes a large swig from it, wiping any stray drops of alcohol from his mouth with the back of his hand, before offering it back to Raylan.

"The villagers were werewolves. Creatures of myth and legend, men who shifted to a bestial, animalistic form on the night of a full moon. And guess what state the moon was in when the tourist arrived."

Based on Dorian's grin, it obviously was a full moon.

"The local told him to run. Night would fall soon and when that happened, he couldn't guarantee the tourist's safety. The tourist did just that. Despite the fact that he had no clue where he was, where the nearest bit of safety was, if he could even survive the night, the tourist ran like his life depended on it."

In the distance, a wolf howls.

He was so glad their wolfish 'gifts' wasn't actually triggered by the moon. What a wild pain in the ass that would be to live day in and day out. The flask is tucked away and he settles still, firelight dancing in the reflection of his steady attention on the handsome man across from him.

The wolfs howl draws Raylan's immediate attention and Goose shifts with a soft crunch of paws adjusting in readiness in the snow. It was spooky, sitting out here in the open, telling stories like this. Daring. A provocation to what always hid in the dark of the tree line.

It didn't help that the aspects of the wolf that had settled in him relished in the thought of what that might feel like. Chasing man.

"Night fell upon them. And with the scent of the tourist on the wind, the werewolves started to hunt. The tourist ran like his life depended on it, wolves at his heels. He stumbled through the night, tripping over ice, skidding over his own feet, but eventually, he made it back to the road, back to civilization. He—"

The wolves howl again, this time closer. Dorian pauses, frowns, then asks,

"Did that seem closer to you?"

Though he is perfectly fine telling a story about werewolves, it's obvious Dorian would rather not deal with actual wolves.

It hit a little close to home with the great Moose Hunt not so far behind them, the whole line about being chased by wolves and if they were inside, he was aware it might nip at the back of his mind less. His attention was back on the tree line with the closer howl, one hand digging back into his jacket again and coming out with a gun that sits on his leg at the ready.

His skin crawled with that unwelcome, sadly common feeling that they were being watched.

"I'm sure it'll be fine. And if it's not.." He lifts his gun slightly. And if that didn't work, Raylan had one last desperate thing up his sleeve that wasn't shifting himself. Even if it might result in him being naked or half roasted alive anyway.

"Goose is keepin' a watch, he'll let us know."

"Isn't Goose your dog? I don't see how a dog can win a fight against a wolf. Because if there's one of them, then there are certainly more."

Wolves come in packs! Even Dorian 'city boy' Gray knows this! If one of them is howling, then more are nearby!

And hey, it's howling again. And getting even closer. Dorian stands up, trying not to seem rattled despite the fact that he very obviously is.

"Right, I vote we leave, considering I'd rather not be turned into puppy chow this evening. I have spent a large amount of time here and alive and would prefer to keep it that way."

Raylan's mouth tightened into an unimpressed line. There was obviously a lot that Dorian didn't know. Which, considering how prevalent the wolves were here, seemed like a drastic mistake.

"No. And neither is he my pet."

Wolves did come in packs and when Raylan didn't have anyone else around, they were a pack of two, regardless if he were on two feet or four. He doesn't move for a moment as Dorian gets up, dark eyes squinting from a tilted, measuring gaze. Finally, he stands up, gun sliding back into his pocket where it stays with his hand.

"We'll leave the fire. You should leave your food too." As he starts off, he continues. "Take it you're not so in the mood for finishin' that story, are you?"

He wouldn't be him without at least one proverbial finger at the Powers that Be.

"Oh, not in the slightest," Dorian says, with zero hesitation. "And then they all lived happily ever after, the end."

It's said very quick and very dry—Dorian is absolutely not up for finishing his story and absolutely for getting the hell out of dodge. He takes one more glance back to the forest, frown on his face, before—

"There's something in there. It—Jesus Christ!"

Because the thing that comes barrelling out of the forest isn't a wolf. Not exactly. The werewolf has a snout, of course, but elongated arms and legs, vicious claws at the end of human-like limb proportions. It's body is muscle and sinew, covered with a layer of fur built to survive the Arctic.

You don't have to tell Dorian twice. He starts to fucking book it, running away from the werewolf (and also Raylan in the process, sorry buddy, you're on your own.)

Raylan almost laughs, the crooked half grin on his face cheeky at Dorian's rush to finish the tale and quickly falling off as his ears pick up the rush of feet. A handful of things happen at the same time as Dorian swears - Goose whines and Raylan pushes to his feet, gun coming to his hand like it had been there the whole time.

Two shots fire out and fill the darkness with their ringing, and despite how confident Raylan was in his shots, he wasn't hesitating in turning and booking it after Dorian with Goose in his wake. The creature yelps and snarls at the two shots, lurching to the side, but it wasn't going to be enough to stop it.

"This is bullshit," he hollers. He knew it did fuck all to stop this, but that didn't dissuade him from cussing about it anyway.

His boots weren't generally made for running, but he had upgraded since then. A shame it did nothing for his ever shifting luck - one wrong step has him falling onto his hip and ass, forcing him to roll onto his back to shoot another three rounds.

BANG BANG BANG.

It was a neat grouping - all around one eye and the center of the creature's head. Maybe it was luck, maybe it was skill, but the werewolf snarls in pain and surprise as it nose dives into the snow in front of him.

Raylan stares as Goose pulls at his jacket, whining some more and it only take the sound of more rushing feet to get him back on his own.

Fuck.

Dorian can't help it. He ignores the first few shots but when he hears the second round, the snarl of a dying creature, Dorian turns around to look. A moment of relief flits across his face...before instantly tensing back up as he hears the sound of other beasts approaching.

"Lethal rounds are probably our best bet," he frowns. "That one's obviously dead and I managed to kill one back home by shooting it square in the chest." Which is Dorian blatantly admitting that he's dealt with werewolves before, but he'll explain more of that later. "I've no idea how well they take nonlethal rounds. And frankly, I don't want to find out. Shall we?"

The church isn't close, but it's not too far. In Dorian's mind, the best strategy is book it, slam the door, barricade it, wait it out until the morning. So, without waiting to see if Raylan joins him or not, Dorian starts booking it, running in the direction of where he knows the church is.

Raylan doesn't hesitate in booking it. His bullet supply was limited and they were fish in a pond out here in the open with nothing to hide behind and nothing to use to cover their scent.

"Who carries non-lethal rounds," he manages bitingly to ask as keeps a long pace with those legs of his. There was no waiting for conversation now and Raylan didn't slow until they were at the church doors. He ran.. fast now, faster than he ever had when he was without the gifts of this place, and with a smooth grace that spoke to ease.

Oh, he'd have questions about the whole 'killing one back home', but that would be saved for the handful of minutes later, once they got inside the doors of the church he finally saw in front of them.

Chloe leans in too, grinning, then laughs in delight at the dramatization of the tree flying through the house.

“Absolutely classic. These stories can't let a man and a woman he just met get too close together. This troll was obsessed with her specifically? Family curse thing?”

"We live in a fucking post-apocalyptic world, how am I supposed to know what you use for bullets?! And you can shoot someone non lethally!!"

Dorian is justified in his fussiness and he will die on that hill! He will even die on that hill yelling while running, actively panting, secretly more than a little annoyed that Raylan is noticeably running faster than him.

Raylan makes it to the church before Dorian does—though he manages one last burst of speed as he hears a snarl from the distance, hears the sound of an animal rushing through the trees. As he practically leaps through the door, Dorian yells, "Close it!"

Which he is letting Mr. Got There First take care of—Dorian's everything hurts a bit too much right now.

"She claimed it was because she was a goddess. The goddess Freya, chased by a troll due to the eternal enmity between the gods and the trolls. The tourist wasn't exactly sure if he believed her. But he knew that the troll was very big and very strong and frankly, didn't want to be turned to paste."

Dorian's tone of voice is light and jovial even as, in the distance, there is a thud, thud, thud of something large approaching.

"The two ran. They only stopped running when they came to a dead end—a large lake, frozen over in the winter."

They could argue all that in a minute - not that Raylan had a good argument, he just preferred that if he was going to shoot someone, that there be no other option but a kill shot. It just made so much easier and so many people were unwittingly willingly to comply and put him into that position.

Goose beats even Raylan to the church and as soon as Dorian is clear from the door, Raylan is slamming the doors closed and flipping the locks. Without any pause, he grabs a pew and slides it smoothly in front of the door, propping it closed with a foot on the edge of the pew seat and a firm pressure.

"You find me a nine mil bean bag round and a good use for it, I'll start incorperatin' it, but bullets is bullets. Good runnin', by the way." He should be more out of breath but he's not. Instead he looks almost high on it, dark eyes glittering with excitement.

"Find me somethin' to shove between these handles, will ya?"

"Broom closet," Dorian says, as if that's an answer to Raylan's request. In his mind, it is, as he immediately makes a beeline to a small closet in the back of the main church area. Every building needs a broom closet and a church is no different. As he opens the door to rummage through, Dorian holds out a mop.

"Will this do?" There's a pause before, "And I will happily take the compliment on the running. I haven't done something like that in ages—glad to see I've still got it."

Dorian, in contrast, is absolutely out of breath. This is a man who tries not to do manual labor unless he really really has to.

Broom closet makes sense and it's a faster answer than he would have been able to supply, were their positions reversed. His first thought is 'candle stick' but a second thought would expose how that was, in fact, not a stellar idea. Look, he was only smart sometimes.

"Better than nothin'," he says, gesturing for Dorian to bring it over with a glance at the door. The night was suddenly quiet around them but that brought Raylan no comfort. He could smell them out there - two if he had to guess, and his ears felt like they were reaching for the sound of paws on the ground.

"No chance that your power works on monsters like that, does it?" His voice is quieter now, soft but reaching with a hint of humor. "Least you can tell me you have a lighter, right?"

"I don't think so," Dorian frowns. "Not unless they've gifts like we do."

As for a lighter...Dorian makes his way to the front of the church. Behind the altar, there's a little cubbyhole. Dorian rummages around for a moment before producing a box of matches.

"No lighter, but hopefully this will work."

“I’m with the tourist here. This goddess had a house he could just drive to?” Chloe snickers. “Though the troll was real, I guess.”

Most of the legends Chloe follows don't exactly take place in places with regular roads a tourist might be driving on.

“Did they go out onto the lake?”

let's gather round the campfire and sing our campfire song

for chloe

for raylan

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